


worth loving

by LieutenantSaavik



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Post-Canon, References to Hamlet, References to Oscar Wilde, a great alternate title for this would be 'chocolate cake and deep repression', idiots to lovers, references to pacific rim (2013)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 13:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17788652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LieutenantSaavik/pseuds/LieutenantSaavik
Summary: Crowley’s fingers twitched on the steering wheel. He’d noticed something, but didn’t know how to give it name. Lately, with Aziraphale, it was “My dear,” more and more, “My dear boy,” less and less. There was more affection--nothing like an embrace, because that would have embarrassed them both, but more lingering smiles, poignant glances, and--hands.There had always been, Crowley reflected, something peculiar about hands.





	worth loving

Crowley was doing the sort of thinking people do when they drive, which is to say no thinking at all.

The mind travels to strange places while the body travels at 130 km/h down a 110 km/h freeway.

“Eyes on the road, my dear.”

“Right,” Crowley deadpanned, “Because an accident would kill us.”

“Not _us_ ,” said the angel said mildly. Somehow, the car slowed down. “Do you, er, know where we’re going?”

“No.”

Aziraphale laced his fingers in his lap and they continued in silence for a while.

“Your flat,” he guessed.

“No.”

“A lovely little lake with a rustic cabin beside it, stocked with books of all shapes and colours and ages, books so old they no longer exist and books so young they haven’t been written,” he mused.

“No,” Crowley repeated, with slightly more force.

“Just a pleasure cruise, then?”

Crowley’s fingers twitched on the steering wheel. He’d noticed something, but didn’t know how to give it name. Lately, with Aziraphale, it was “My dear,” more and more, “My dear boy,” less and less. There was more affection—nothing like an embrace, because that would have embarrassed them both, but more lingering smiles, poignant glances, and—hands.

There had always been, Crowley reflected, something peculiar about hands.

One morning out in St. James park, with the dew ripe on the grass and the ducks just beginning to weigh the pros and cons of socialising, Aziraphale had, without warning or preamble, taken Crowley’s hand. He had taken it before, and Crowley had taken Aziraphale’s, most memorably the night of the almost-apocalypse—but this was a longer, more tender grip, borne not out of desperation but joy. If it hadn’t been such a surprise, Crowley might, perhaps, have enjoyed the feeling, but demons were demons and he pulled away, leaving Aziraphale glum.

And that was that. Or it should have been.

But there were other moments, too, moments Crowley was guilty of initiating—the evening they had spent in Aziraphale’s bookshop, drinking to the point of careless laughter, when he had reached out with an unsteady finger and, for lack of a better word, ‘boop’ed Aziraphale on the end of his nose. That resulted in Aziraphale playfully pulling Crowley’s glasses from his face; _that_ resulted in Crowley falling forward in attempting to wrest them back, and _that_ resulted in the two of them facing each other across the table, nearly nose-to-nose, and Crowley had tilted his head just so as if to kiss him, then pulled back with a raucous laugh and sobered himself with a grimace.

It was pernicious, this affection, Crowley thought, but it interested him. He eased off on the accelerator. Perhaps they were going to his flat after all.

 

They were.

 

“I suppose that’s what they call ‘the long way home,” Aziraphale murmured as they trundled into the elevator. It would have been broken, but neither Crowley nor Aziraphale expected it to be, so it wasn’t.

“Scenic route,” Crowley replied. He punched the button.

“I suppose the M25 is still in operation,” Aziraphale remarked as they began to move upward.

“You mean still joining its voice with Dukes and Archdukes and with all the company of Hell, who forever sing this hymn to proclaim the, er, _un-glory_ of the Devil’s name: Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds—”

“Point made,” said Aziraphale, miffed, “But no. Presuming the landscape hasn’t spontaneously shifted into unreogniseability—”

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen in the area—”

“—the M25 is still a low-potency Satanic sigil. I was just curious as to why you seemed to be avoiding it—”

Crowley’s turn to be miffed. “Low-potency?”

“—As we were in the area recently and you elected for a, as you call it, Scenic Route that resulted in a great deal more traffic and delay.”

The elevator doors opened, and the two stepped out. “Because,” Aziraphale continued, “I can only think of three reasons you might—that the road was under construction; that you didn’t wish to contribute to the evil the road exudes; or that you simply wished to spend more time in the car.”

If there was an unspoken _With me_ , Crowley didn’t rise to it. “Construction,” he said shortly, and opened the door to his flat. There was still, he noted with a combination of irritation and something like pride, a rancid-looking circle of black on his carpet.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked, prodding it with his toe.

“Ligur,” said Crowley, and did not elaborate. Aziraphale retracted his foot.

Crowley crossed to his fridge and tossed a glistening green salad, followed by an entire chocolate cake, onto the white marble countertop. “You want something to eat?”

“Not particularly.” Aziraphale settled down comfortably on the white leather couch and looked at nothing. He was feeling rather weary, though for what reason he couldn’t say.

Well, he _could_ say. But he wouldn’t.

The problem was, Aziraphale had lately been having more and more decidedly un-angelic thoughts about Crowley. The first thought was that he’d like to take his hand. The second thought was that he’d like to kiss him. The third thought was that he’d like to get him against the wall, put his hands on either side of his face, and push his whole body against him. The fourth thought was that he’d like to—

The fourth thought we’ll leave in Aziraphale’s mind, for rather obvious reasons.

The fact is, Aziraphale would gladly and greedily make love to Crowley for hours or even for days. And this had been going on for a while.

There was nothing to be done about it, of course; nothing but the odd look, the lingering glance, the slow and (hopefully) subtle touching of hands that had characterised their interactions for the past few thousand years. Anything beyond that would risk jeopardising the most dependable, invigorating, and comforting aspect of Aziraphale’s existence: Crowley’s presence.

Aziraphale knew that, and had tried anyway. Crowley had pushed him away—or had he?

Crowley was talking. Aziraphale blinked back to reality.

“What?” he asked.

Crowley sought the ceiling for help. “I said, do you want to watch something?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, flustered and irrationally worried he was sitting on the remote control (he wasn’t). “How many times did you ask?”

“Maybe three.” Crowley took out an unnervingly large knife and cut himself a piece of the cake. “And you’re sure you don’t want some of this? It’s called ‘Devil’s Food.’ I think it’s American.”

“You make a compelling case,” Aziraphale said vaguely, slipping back into his thoughts, “But no.”

“You’re distracted,” Crowley observed as he ate. He took his plate over to Aziraphale (he had a dynamic way of moving, Aziraphale noted, one of the only hints of Serpent left) and sat down next to him, dropping a warm hand onto his shoulder. “Do you want to leave?”

Crowley had always been attuned to (or perhaps had attuned himself to) the signs that his friend wanted to be alone, and he was getting massive readings now. Aziraphale was no recluse, but there were always moments where he curled into himself a bit, vanishing behind the eyes. This was one of them.

“I don’t want to leave,” Aziraphale sighed after a few seconds of vacant staring, and Crowley felt relieved without knowing why.

“What do you want, then?” Crowley didn’t often have to resort to therapy-style guiding questions, but he figured that if there was a time for them, it was now. Everything had been spiritually fucked, emotionally fucked, physically fucked, and metaphysically superfucked ever since they’d cancelled the apocalypse—their relationship, too. He wanted to bring them together again, he supposed. Perhaps Aziraphale had been feeling strange.

Aziraphale had. His most pressing desire was for normalcy, and his second-most pressing desire was to rest his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He did. “I’m very tired,” he confessed. “And I wish you—”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” Aziraphale looked up the side of Crowley’s face. “Is it so surprising that something you did affected me?”

“No,” admitted Crowley, peering down at him, “But I didn’t do anything.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That’s true.”

“Stupid angels,” Crowley remarked to the top of Aziraphale’s head, and pulled his angel closer. “You always make everything feel like love.”

“We don’t,” said Aziraphale, muffled because his face was pressed into Crowley’s shoulder. He snaked his arms around Crowley’s back to properly hug him. Crowley considered and decided against extricating himself. “We mostly fly under the radar.”

“You mostly don’t fly at all.”

“Unfortunately.”

“What did you wish I would do, exactly?” Crowley asked, unsure what he should do with his arms. “Leave you alone?”

“No, I like you,” said Aziraphale, still muffled.

Crowley snorted. “You respect me,” he corrected, “Or at least I hope you do, but you’ve never exactly liked me.”

“My dear boy,” said Aziraphale, pulling away sharply and staring at Crowley, bemused. “Never exactly liked you?” He spread his perfectly-manicured hands and made a show of looking about him. “Do I have any other friends?”

“Well, that’s just it,” said Crowley, picking his cake plate back up again. “You spend time with me because there’s nobody else to go to.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, his brows knit, and there was something on his face almost like pity.

“Look,” Crowley explained through a mouthful of frosting, “We’re the only people who’ve gone through what we’ve gone through, and that’s the only reason we’re close.”

“I don’t understand,” said Aziraphale, and the pity had morphed into pain. “You think we’re friends because we have experiences in common and shared life experience.”

“Yes?” said Crowley, sounding unsure.

“But that’s not enough.”

“No, it is! It’s just—”

“Trivial?”

“No,” Crowley protested, sounding silly even to his own ears. “No. It’s just—”

“Is this the opposite-sides thing?” Aziraphale asked, flushing a little. “Because that, coming from you, would be—”

“No,” Crowley repeated. “No!”

Aziraphale folded his arms, radiating coldness, and it was impossible to imagine they had been holding each other just moments ago. “Then what?”

“I just feel like—why would you—you’re an Angel, Angel with a capital A. And if you _could_ go to anyone else, spend time with anyone else, well, why would you spend time with a demon?”

The pain in Aziraphale’s face morphed back into pity, and somehow that was worse. “Don’t you see?” Crowley continued, slapping words together as he went along. “You don’t have a choice,” he tried. “ _We_ don’t have a choice. We’re down here, we’re stuck, so we spend time together or we go crazy from isolation, and that’s it. No human would get you--understand you—like I can, so of course you’d go to me. But just because it’s me or no-one.” He looked up, satisfied at his newfound ability to navigate ‘feelings.’ “Yeah.”

Aziraphale inhaled deeply and carefully, and did something he swore he’d never do.

He took the Lord’s name in vain.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” he said.

Up in Heaven, the man himself was involuntarily moved to applause.

“What?” asked Crowley, and then, “Say that again.”

Aziraphale obliged.

“Wow,” said Crowley. “And you didn’t even turn into a pillar of salt or a ball of flame or anything.”

Aziraphale looked Crowley dead in the eye, and expressed to him a sentiment that had formed itself in his heart’s core, in his heart of heart, in the very, very bottom of his ancient, ancient soul.

“You’re an _idiot,_ ” he said.

“What?” asked Crowley, and distantly wondered how many times today he’d said that.

“I said, you’re an idiot, because you’re an idiot to not think I like you, and you’re an idiot to think that I only spend time with you because I don’t have a choice. If you could spend time with anyone else, would you spend time with me?”

“Of course,” said Crowley automatically.

Aziraphale smiled. “And why?”

“Because you have dumb hair. And—a stupid sense of fashion. Because you like tartan, even though it’s awful. Because you’re fastidious and fussy and a goddamn nerd. Because you get your nails done. Because you’d spill coffee on a book and leave it face-down on a table for two hundred years but would violently discorporate me if I even laid a finger on  _ The Importance of Being Earnest _ . Because you took pity on Eve. Because you pet the animals on Noah’s Ark. Because you cried when we saw the original performance of Hamlet. Because you do bad magic tricks. Because you have a mean streak. I like you because you’re worth liking. Because--you’re my friend.”

“And I like you,” Aziraphale said smugly, “Because you have dumb sunglasses and an even worse sense of fashion. Because you like old cars, even though they’re impractical. Because you’re prickly and awkward but you’re loyal as he—as heav—as anyone. Because you’d meticulously create a perfect, state-of-the-art stereo system for your flat and then forget to plug it in. Because you have houseplants. Because you feed ducks. Because you remembered, four hundred years later, that you owed me lunch. Because you’d save the life of a single dove. Because you also cried when we saw the original performance of Hamlet. Because you do evil badly. Because you have a kind streak. I like you because you’re worth liking. Because you’re my friend, too.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. And then, “ _ Did _ I forget to plug my stereo system in?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale informed him. “Not that it made any difference.”

There was a pause.

“Well,” said Crowley, picking up his chocolate-covered fork and spinning it between his fingers, “I’m glad we got all that out of our systems. Confessions of affection and whatnot.”

“Would you kiss me,” Aziraphale asked abruptly, and the fork falls out of Crowley’s hand.

“Er.”

Crowley fixed his shirt collar, stuck a hand in his pocket, and pulled it out again. “Wh—would I want to—why would you offer it like _that_? Do you think it’s—? Snog an angel, achievement unlocked, level up, or something?”

“Sometimes I find your methods of expression—”

“‘A little difficult to follow,’ I know.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You are so unorthodox.”

“Unorthodox as that Greek Church,” Crowley quipped, and immediately knew the way to gain back the upper hand in the conversation. He turned the question on Aziraphale triumphantly. “Would _you_ ,” he asked, picking up the fork and pointing it,“Kiss _me_?”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, not eagerly, not reluctantly, but just factually, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Crowley dropped the fork again. This time, it landed on the couch with a splat. “You would?”

The chocolate stain vanished. “I would.”

And suddenly, it _was_ the simplest thing in the world.

“Well,” said Crowley, “Do you, er, want to, then?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Yes.”

Crowley shifted a bit closer, then rethought. “Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “Who leans in first? Do I need to take off my sunglasses, or do we just go for it? What if there’s some sort of cosmic punishment, or something?”

Aziraphale snorted. “I assure you _that_ won’t happen.”

“But what if we both lean the same way and our noses hit each other?”

They both sat back and pondered that infinitely worse prospect for a moment.

“I’ll lean left,” Crowley decided, “And you lean right.”

They tried. Their noses hit each other.

It was maybe not _the_ simplest thing in the world, then.

“My left is your right,” Aziraphale remembered.

“Right. I mean left. I mean yes.”

They tried again. This time it worked.

They kissed.

For a little while. Then Crowley remembered how inexperienced he was, broke away, and apologised.

A notable trait of Crowley’s is that, when thrust into social situations that place him under significant distress, he begins babbling. You could call it prating, prattling, or chattering, but Aziraphale would have called it babbling and would have been correct. Sometimes Crowley’s babbling came in the form of “So I'll be popping along—see you guys ar—see you. Er. Great. Fine. Ciao,” and sometimes it came in the form of excessive swearing, and this time it came in the form of something like this:

“I’m sorry—for stopping, stopping suddenly, I mean—because, well—I wasn’t—I didn’t want to—I mean, I _did_ want to keep kissing you, but what if you weren’t enjoying it, and it’s new to both of us—”

And it stopped abruptly when Crowley gave the reddening Aziraphale a puzzled look.

“It _is_ new to both of us,” he said more slowly, “Right?”

“I suppose--er,” began Aziraphale, looking increasingly flustered, “It’s rather—er—well, there was this--this one— _interaction—_ but I don’t suppose it counted—”

“All right,” said Crowley languidly. “ _All right._ You have to tell me who.”

“Whom,” Aziraphale snipped, and Crowley, who had the faint suspicion that it was Who, actually, kept quiet.

“In a pub one night, midnight at the earliest, there was a—a mutual, you could say, _curiosity_ , an _attraction_ perhaps, that led myself and a certain Mister Oscar Wilde to the bathroom and--well.” He shifted awkwardly. “The man can deliver a performance, I must say.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, processing. “ _Oh_.”

“It’s perfectly understandable,” Aziraphale said in defence of himself, “And, I would say, a rather good showing.”

“Certainly,” said Crowley, attempting not to visualise, “Certainly.”

There was an odd tone to his voice. “You’re not,” Aziraphale scrutinised him, “Jealous, are you?”

“Please, Aziraphale. Devil forbid I, a demon of Hell, exhibit one of the Seven Deadly Sins.” He paused and reclined farther into the sofa. “But a bit, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You saw your chance and you took it. Besides, I was asleep.” A question occurred to him. “Who kissed better, me or him?”

“He kissed me much more thoroughly than you did,” Aziraphale conceded, “But—” and here an odd, affectionate gleam came into his eyes, “You could change that.”

“You know what, angel?” Crowley sat up, took Aziraphale’s face between his hands, and grinned at him wickedly. “I think I will.”

If the inhabitants of the flat below could become aware that two people above their heads were frantically snogging, they would not have been surprised at all. If they could become aware that the two people were actually an angel and a demon, they also would not have been surprised at all, provided they had read _GOOD OMENS, A Narrative of Certain Events occurring in the last eleven years of human history, in strict accordance as shall be shewn with: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Compiled and edited, with Footnotes of an Educational Nature and Precepts for the Wise, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett._ Unfortunately, they had not read _GOOD OMENS, A Narrative of Certain Events occurring in the last eleven years of human history, in strict accordance as shall be shewn with: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Compiled and edited, with Footnotes of an Educational Nature and Precepts for the Wise, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett_. The narrator would like to take this moment to advise everyone of good sense to read _GOOD OMENS, A Narrative of Certain Events occurring in the last eleven years of human history, in strict accordance as shall be shewn with: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Compiled and edited, with Footnotes of an Educational Nature and Precepts for the Wise, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett_ , provided they have not read _GOOD OMENS, A Narrative of Certain Events occurring in the last eleven years of human history, in strict accordance as shall be shewn with: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Compiled and edited, with Footnotes of an Educational Nature and Precepts for the Wise, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett_ , already.

“Aren’t you glad we did that?” Aziraphale asked, finally helping himself to part of Crowley’s massive cake. Literal cake, thank you very much.

“Yes,” said Crowley, resisting the urge to preen. “Took us long enough.” He swiped some of Aziraphale’s frosting. “Why did you think it took us so long to fall in love? Six thousand years has got to be a record.”

“Mm,” said Aziraphale, “Perhaps we just weren’t ready before.”

“How human of us. Or perhaps we were ready, and just didn’t know it.”

“Maybe it was there all along. Just an—an unspoken—something we couldn’t talk about. Something—”

“Ineffable,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale kissed him again.

“So you do love me?” Crowley asked.

“Of course,” Aziraphale answered.

“Finally,” scoffed Crowley. “An angel with _taste_.”


End file.
